


Connect Four-ever

by mikaylamazing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Connect Four, Episode: s15e12 Galaxy Brain, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikaylamazing/pseuds/mikaylamazing
Summary: Dean and Cas play a game of connect four that is so much more than just a game of connect fouraka we all got so excited about connect four and I know supernatural would never deliver so I took things into my own hands
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 156





	Connect Four-ever

**Author's Note:**

> hate that i did actual math for this  
> not proofread so let me know if you find any mistakes and please enjoy! (i'm not sorry for my title)

Dean takes time to think, not because he necessarily has anything to think about, but because he knows he can’t deal with the alternative - not in a way that amounts to anything positive or meaningful, at least. He thinks about worst possible outcomes, and best possible outcomes, and everything in between, just to avoid thinking about the hard and fast reality of the present. There was no decision that he could make, no statement to give that would reassure that all is well. 

Because he isn’t sure that it is. 

Dean wishes so badly that there was some way for him to know that they’re doing the right thing - the  _ only  _ thing that’ll get them out of this B movie of a life - but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel wrong. 

When Dean first saw Jack again, everything hit him at once. He hadn’t even realized just how many negative emotions were still nestled inside of him, stabbing and twisting when he and Jack locked eyes. Of course there was residual anger, hopelessness, emptiness, but above all, there was an overwhelming sense of loss and regret, like Dean hadn’t truly missed Jack until he was standing right in front of him. In the bunker. In their  _ home _ . 

Jack’s face was the same as he remembered it, pleading but understanding, and Dean could feel the graveyard dirt beneath his feet, his finger on the trigger of an irreversible fate. Or, what he thought was irreversible. He supposes that he should know better by now than to think in absolutes. 

They stood face to face, and while everything in Dean wanted nothing more than to turn away, to hide from the shame of knowing he had nearly killed Jack (and himself) for the sake of God’s personal entertainment, he felt himself being pulled into Jack’s presence. He placed his hand on the back of Jack’s neck, not pushing or pulling, just looking, as if one glance could give him all the answers. But it gives him nothing. He can stare for ages and still be no closer to knowing what will happen if they go down this path. He’ll be no closer to drawing the line between ultimate right and wrong, only closer to the conclusion that there might not be a clean way out of this. 

For the better part of his life, Dean has coped with the fact that a happy ending may not be in the cards for him. Dean drilled it into his head that if they could save lives - the world, even - then maybe what they dealt with on a personal level didn’t matter. Once upon a time, if Dean thought there was a legitimate way in which he could not only save the world, but Sam too, he’d have taken that route without giving it a second thought. Once upon a time, Dean also thought that it would always be just him, Sam, and their father. 

It’s not like he expected their dad to be around for long. Dean knew the risks of their job, how those risks increased tenfold when John would go out by himself for days at a time, and in the end, he died looking for answers to a bigger question than he probably could have ever imagined. But if he’s being honest, Dean also didn’t think he would be around for long. In all fairness, he and Sam both would’ve been gone ages ago had it not been for Chuck.  _ God _ . 

It still makes him want to punch a wall sometimes; fleeting moments where everything feels out of his control. Because ultimately, even the things that Dean should be grateful are still in his life, are a result of Chuck’s desire to watch them suffer. 

Now it’s him, his brother, an angel, and the son of Satan, and Dean is still stuck trying to figure out what to trust: his own instincts… or his family. He wonders, quietly, in his head, if there is any situation where the two overlap? 

Since purgatory, things have been different in a way Dean can’t - or doesn’t want to - figure out. He’s very aware of the nature of their current situation. He knows they’re all running out of time to do something, but he doesn’t know what any of that even means. The end of the world is something they’ve been fighting against for years, but it’s not something Dean has the capacity to actually understand. So where do you start?

Dean drags his hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut until he sees stars, and decides he’s been sitting alone - drinking, thinking - for too long. When he bothers tuning back into the real world, it’s to the distant sound of voices: Cas’s low and looming, with Jack’s chiming in every few words. 

Dean wanted to scream at both of them about how choices like these almost never work out, that they should have at least talked about it first. But he stayed quiet, frigid and tense as he walked down the hall to his room, but quiet nonetheless, exhaling as he closed the door behind him. Screaming at the only people who care about him does nothing to improve an already bad situation. It’s only taken him a few decades to figure it out, and a little bit longer to change his bad habits, but he made it here: still seething from time to time, but not screaming. Not hurting the people around him just because he’s angry and he can.

Dean takes in one more deep breath before following the voices, listening until their words become clearer, connected by the clacking sound of plastic hitting plastic. When he veers the corner of the room, he can see Cas and Jack at one end of the map table sitting looking at each other over a game of connect four. He considers, for a moment, turning back and retreating. After all, there’s no need to intrude on a moment that’s already happening when he could just be a part of a different moment tomorrow. But before he can even take one step back, Cas turns around in his chair, as if he sensed Dean’s hesitance. 

“Dean,” is all Cas says, but his gaze is heavy with something like hope. Dean wishes he knew where exactly that hope was directed. Before either of them can think of something else to say, Jack speaks up for them.

“We were just playing a game. Would you like to join us?” Jack asks, eyes shifting from Dean, to the game board, and then back to Dean with a look in his eye that Dean has trouble describing with words. 

“Nah, I think I’m fine. Besides, connect four is a two-player game,” Dean declines, still hovering away from the table.

“You can take my place! I haven’t been able to win against Castiel anyway,” Jack insists, standing up from his seat before Dean can say anything. He relents, putting up his hands. When he sits down, Cas, despite being the one to initiate conversation, doesn’t even make eye contact, directing all of his attention to emptying the board and dividing the checkers into two separate piles. 

“What do you mean you haven’t been able to win? It’s connect four, not rocket science,” 

Dean quips before he can stop himself. It’s supposed to come out like a joke, but given his history with Jack it comes out more like a metal ruler to the knuckles. Apologizing is still a relatively new thing for him, and he’s not sure how to go about it for something this small without blowing it out of proportion, but before he can even think of a way to start, Jack is talking again.

“Castiel is really smart. He was telling me about all the different ways you can fill the board. What was it? Four million…”

“Four  _ trillion.  _ 4,531,985,219,092, to be specific. However, not all of those possibilities result in a win. Some of them are absolute nonsense; nothing you would actually logically play. But, they are possibilities, nonetheless,” Cas says, finally looking back up, but still not quite making eye contact.

“Four trillion, huh? Gonna be real with you, I don’t wanna think about numbers that big. Ever,” Dean responds, attempting to disperse the tension surrounding the three of them. He moves the red checkers closer to himself, making so much noise in the quiet, echoing room.

“As is the case for most humans. After all, even when you consider all of the possible ways of playing this very simple game, you would never be able to play every single one. If you played nonstop from the moment you were born until the moment you died, you would still need to live over 200,000 lives, on average. Not accounting for lives longer or shorter than the current expectancy.”

“Huh. A life of sliding plastic chips into a plastic frame forever. Sounds like a real fulfilling life,” Dean jokes, starting the game in the center of the board. Cas says nothing and he doesn’t go to make a move. For a moment, Dean thinks that it’s over; that whatever spell has been over them since purgatory - since Jack came back - has disappeared and now they’ll have to talk about  _ things _ . But Cas merely lifts an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against the table before taking one of his pieces between his thumb and forefinger, and then tucking it into the palm of his hand. He just sits there for a second before sliding the checker into the spot right above Dean’s.

“You think so?” Cas asks, but now Dean can barely remember what he was talking about, too engaged in the mannerisms Dean has come to appreciate about Cas. 

“Do I think what?” Dean responds in question, looking over the board once and making his next move mid-thought. Cas gives him the faintest smile, one that outsiders might not even be able to identify. But Dean sees it, and it makes him wish he could stay in that moment forever. He hadn’t stopped to think about how long it had been since Cas genuinely smiled at him. He hates to think about how he’ll react to anything more substantial.

“That playing a game your whole life would be fulfilling; the same game, over and over. Wouldn’t it get boring?” 

“Sure. Probably after the first couple dozen games. But at least you know what’s coming next. No stupid surprises. No cosmic entities messing with you for fun. Simple.”

“Ah, so you say ‘fulfilling’ to mean less emotionally and physically taxing than your current life,” Cas says, his tone matter-of-fact as he makes his next move, almost like he didn’t think about it at all. Dean knows better than that though. 

“Yeah, I guess so. You know, you go through the wringer as many times as we have and you start thinking any alternative couldn’t be that bad,” Dean admits, sliding another piece in, mindless and lost in his own head. 

Of course he’s thought about a different life; one where he’s not constantly expected to save lives, or a town, or the world. And maybe an endless life of a board game intended for seven-year-olds would be just as torturous, but he thinks he’d give anything to have the choice right now. He’s never really acknowledged that out loud before. 

“I can understand why you would feel that way. You and your brother have had to endure a great deal of pain in your lives. It would make sense to want to do something else for a change, but forever? You never struck me as someone who thought in those terms.”

“I’m not; not really. I just think it would be nice to be able to have that kind of faith in the future… or anything.”

“Well, faith certainly is a tricky thing. Though, I will say it’s odd that you would be willing to put so much of it into a hypothetical life where you only play connect four.” 

As Cas slots another checker into place, Dean laughs because on the surface it does sound funny. But he knows - and he thinks Cas knows - that they’re talking about something else entirely; something Dean never thought he’d have to guts to talk about until they went through round two of purgatory. 

“What can I say? Predictability is a hell of a drug for a guy like me,” Dean responds, contemplating his next play, belatedly realizing that Jack is still sitting on the other side of the table, stock-still and silent. When he makes eye contact with Dean, he looks nervous, like Dean’s going to tell him to get lost, or chase him out of the room. Jack ducks his head quickly after that. Dean wishes there was a fast and easy way to fix them. Cas either hasn’t noticed their wordless interaction or he’s doing a really good job of pretending like he hasn’t.

Dean clears his throat and drops another checker into another slot. 

“Even if it’s boring? Even if you’re playing against the same person forever?” Cas asks, his eyes pointedly drawn to the board despite the fact that he probably doesn’t even need to look to figure out how the game’s going. Dean hasn’t been paying attention, and it’s plain to see that Cas has two different options for a win. Still, Cas lets his eyes move up and down the blue frame, waiting for Dean to answer his hypothetical. 

“If it’s the right person it’d never be boring,” Dean decides, anxiously drumming his fingers on the table now. Dean has decided he can never be direct about anything ever in his life, so he doesn’t elaborate and just waits for Cas to respond - to him, or to the game; either works at this point. He only needs two more moves to win, and no matter what Dean does, Cas’s victory is imminent. He plays right where Dean knew he would.

“Isn’t that what everything ultimately comes down to?” Cas asks. He’s cryptic and Dean kind of hates it, thinks he’s just going to leave at that, but then he looks right into Dean’s eyes and continues, “Is there any specific criteria for this ideal connect four partner? Or do you already have someone in mind?”

Dean can feel the tips of his ears begin to burn and can’t believe he’s genuinely blushing over this stupid conversation but he can’t force himself to break away from Cas’s gaze, even as he plays what is likely his final checker.

“I’ll let you know if I meet ‘em,” Dean says, cowering away from what he wishes he could say, outside of this stupid game metaphor they seem to be stuck in. Cas remains expressionless as he seems to process both what Dean’s said and what he’s done. He taps the edge of a checker against the table before casually letting it fall into place. 

And yet, when he looks over, Dean sees no perfect rows or columns or even diagonal lines of yellow, but an open space beside his red ones, waiting to be completed by a piece he hadn’t even thought to pick up. When he does and it makes a diagonal line of four, it feels more surreal than just children’s game.

“Well would ya look at that? Looks like I won,” Dean says, a tremor in his voice present when he sees the way Jack’s eyes shoot away from him and back to the game.

“I guess I need to practice more if I wanna be as good as you guys,” Jack says, sounding only slightly downtrodden at the revelation, though Dean has the feeling he won’t have to practice that hard before he sees his first win.

“Or just find the right partner,” Cas adds, looking first to Jack and then to Dean, more pointedly than Dean would ever have the courage to do himself. Cas pats Jack’s shoulder encouragingly, standing from the table as Jack leans over to collect the game pieces, taking them back to his room.

Cas begins walking out of the room as well, though Dean isn’t sure where he’s headed. He clenches his hands, tapping his foot nervously and opening his mouth before he can think better of it.

“Hey, Cas?” He curses the way his voice chokes up at the end, but Cas’s footsteps stop. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t prompt him with an overly patient ‘yes, Dean?’ he just waits for Dean to make the first move. 

“I think my ideal connect four partner would have to let me win sometimes. Even if I don’t deserve it,” Dean rambles, all of the words spilling out faster than his mouth can manage them. He curses himself again. The metaphor is safe. The metaphor isn’t reality, and he’s a coward, but he thinks he’s kind of always known that. 

Despite all of Dean’s negative feelings, and the way his heart is racing, Cas smiles; a small, bitten-back smile that Dean wishes he could see every day. 

“I will take that into consideration while you continue your search for this mythical board game connoisseur,” Cas says, smiling even wider with every word until he turns once again, heading down the hall. Dean bites his tongue then releases it just as quickly, opening his mouth once more, against his better judgment. 

“Don’t think I’ll have to look for very long.” 

Cas doesn’t turn again, but when he stops his shoulders relax and he says, “Goodnight, Dean,” in the gentlest voice he’s ever heard.

“See you in the morning, Cas.”

For the first time ever, he feels confident when he says it. 


End file.
